Hordes of old women storm the esplanade…
An archaeology of lipstick, rouge, and regret.
Hardcore harpies smeared with the crimson colours of days gone by.
Hordes of old women,
faces aghast with the ravages of gravity,
put together by the steely will of looking like the night before morning.
A carved romantic ruin to time blundering by.
Faces who want to be Venetian palazzos,
and look like empty spaces behind buildings.